“‘Twas middlin’ wambly,” assented Calvin Oke, the second fiddle—­a screw-faced man tightly wound about the throat with a yellow kerchief.

“An’ ’tis a delicate matter to cuss the singers when the musicianers be twice as bad.”

“I’d a very present sense of being a bar or more behind the fair—­that I can honestly vow,” put in Elias Sweetland, bending across from the left.  Now Elias was a bachelor, and had blown the serpent from his youth up.  He was a bald, thin man, with a high leathern stock, and shoulders that sloped remarkably.

“Well, ‘taint a suent engine at the best, Elias—­that o’ yourn,” said his affable leader, “nor to be lightly trusted among the proper psa’ms, ’specially since Chris’mas three year, when we sat in the forefront of the gallery, an’ you dropped all but the mouthpiece overboard on to Aunt Belovely’s bonnet at ‘I was glad when they said unto me.’”

“Aye, poor soul.  It shook her.  Never the same woman from that hour, I do b’lieve.  Though I’d as lief you didn’t mention it, friends, if I may say so; for ’twas a bitter portion.”

Elias patted his instrument sadly, and the three men looked up for a moment, as a scud of rain splashed on the window, drowning a sentence of the First Lesson.

“Well, well,” resumed Old Zeb, “we all have our random intervals, and a drop o’ cider in the mouthpieces is no less than Pa’son looks for, Chris’mas mornin’s.”

“Trew, trew as proverbs.”

“Howsever, ’twas cruel bad, that last psa’m, I won’t gainsay.  As for that long-legged boy o’ mine, I keep silence, yea, even from hard words, considerin’ what’s to come.  But ’tis given to flutes to make a noticeable sound, whether tunable or false.”

“Terrible shy he looks, poor chap!”

The three men turned and contemplated Young Zeb Minards, who sat on their left and fidgeted, crossing and uncrossing his legs.

“How be feelin’, my son?”

“Very whitely, father; very whitely, an’ yet very redly.”

Elias Sweetland, moved by sympathy, handed across a peppermint drop.

“Hee-hee!” now broke in an octogenarian treble, that seemed to come from high up in the head of Uncle Issy, the bass-viol player; “But cast your eyes, good friends, ‘pon a little slip o’ heart’s delight down in the nave, and mark the flowers ’pon the bonnet nid-nodding like bees in a bell, with unspeakable thoughts.”

“‘Tis the world’s way wi’ females.”

“I’ll wager, though, she wouldn’t miss the importance of it—­yea, not for much fine gold.”

“Well said, Uncle,” commented the crowder, a trifle more loudly as the wind rose to a howl outside:  “Lord, how this round world do spin!  Simme ’twas last week I sat as may be in the corner yonder (I sang bass then), an’ Pa’son Babbage by the desk statin’ forth my own banns, an’ me with my clean shirt collar limp as a flounder.  As for your mother, Zeb, nuthin ‘ud do but she must dream o’ runnin’ water that Saturday night, an’ want to cry off at the church porch because ’twas unlucky.  ‘Nothin’ shall injuce me, Zeb,’ says she, and inside the half hour there she was glintin’ fifty ways under her bonnet, to see how the rest o’ the maidens was takin’ it.”